Miss Marple – Miss Marple and Mystery: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ But look here, isn’t there anything that I could do? Carry the secret papers to Vienna – or something of that kind? There always are secret papers. Do give me a chance.’

      The train had stopped. Elizabeth jumped quickly out on to the platform. She turned and spoke to him through the window.

      ‘Are you in earnest? Would you really do something for us – for me?’

      ‘I’d do anything in the world for you, Elizabeth.’

      ‘Even if I could give you no reasons?’

      ‘Rotten things, reasons!’

      ‘Even if it were – dangerous?’

      ‘The more danger, the better.’

      She hesitated a minute then seemed to make up her mind.

      ‘Lean out of the window. Look down the platform as though you weren’t really looking.’ Mr Rowland endeavoured to comply with this somewhat difficult recommendation. ‘Do you see that man getting in – with a small dark beard – light overcoat? Follow him, see what he does and where he goes.’

      ‘Is that all?’ asked Mr Rowland. ‘What do I –?’

      She interrupted him.

      ‘Further instructions will be sent to you. Watch him – and guard this.’ She thrust a small sealed packet into his hand. ‘Guard it with your life. It’s the key to everything.’

      The train went on. Mr Rowland remained staring out of the window, watching Elizabeth’s tall, graceful figure threading its way down the platform. In his hand he clutched the small sealed packet.

      The rest of his journey was both monotonous and uneventful. The train was a slow one. It stopped everywhere. At every station, George’s head shot out of the window, in case his quarry should alight. Occasionally he strolled up and down the platform when the wait promised to be a long one, and reassured himself that the man was still there.

      The eventual destination of the train was Portsmouth, and it was there that the black-bearded traveller alighted. He made his way to a small second-class hotel where he booked a room. Mr Rowland also booked a room.

      The rooms were in the same corridor, two doors from each other. The arrangement seemed satisfactory to George. He was a complete novice in the art of shadowing, but was anxious to acquit himself well, and justify Elizabeth’s trust in him.

      At dinner George was given a table not far from that of his quarry. The room was not full, and the majority of the diners George put down as commercial travellers, quiet respectable men who ate their food with appetite. Only one man attracted his special notice, a small man with ginger hair and moustache and a suggestion of horsiness in his apparel. He seemed to be interested in George also, and suggested a drink and a game of billiards when the meal had come to a close. But George had just espied the black-bearded man putting on his hat and overcoat, and declined politely. In another minute he was out in the street, gaining fresh insight into the difficult art of shadowing. The chase was a long and a weary one – and in the end it seemed to lead nowhere. After twisting and turning through the streets of Portsmouth for about four miles, the man returned to the hotel, George hard upon his heels. A faint doubt assailed the latter. Was it possible that the man was aware of his presence? As he debated this point, standing in the hall, the outer door was pushed open, and the little ginger man entered. Evidently he, too, had been out for a stroll.

      George was suddenly aware that the beauteous damsel in the office was addressing him.

      ‘Mr Rowland, isn’t it? Two gentlemen have called to see you. Two foreign gentlemen. They are in the little room at the end of the passage.’

      Somewhat astonished, George sought the room in question. Two men who were sitting there, rose to their feet and bowed punctiliously.

      ‘Mr Rowland? I have no doubt, sir, that you can guess our identity.’

      George gazed from one to the other of them. The spokesman was the elder of the two, a grey-haired, pompous gentleman who spoke excellent English. The other was a tall, somewhat pimply young man, with a blond Teutonic cast of countenance which was not rendered more attractive by the fierce scowl which he wore at the present moment.

      Somewhat relieved to find that neither of his visitors was the old gentleman he had encountered at Waterloo, George assumed his most debonair manner.

      ‘Pray sit down, gentlemen. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. How about a drink?’

      The elder man held up a protesting hand.

      ‘Thank you, Lord Rowland – not for us. We have but a few brief moments – just time for you to answer a question.’

      ‘It’s very kind of you to elect me to the peerage,’ said George. ‘I’m sorry you won’t have a drink. And what is this momentous question?’

      ‘Lord Rowland, you left London in company with a certain lady. You arrived here alone. Where is the lady?’

      George rose to his feet.

      ‘I fail to understand the question,’ he said coldly, speaking as much like the hero of a novel as he could. ‘I have the honour to wish you good-evening, gentlemen.’

      ‘But you do understand it. You understand it perfectly,’ cried the younger man, breaking out suddenly. ‘What have you done with Alexa?’

      ‘Be calm, sir,’ murmured the other. ‘I beg of you to be calm.’

      ‘I can assure you,’ said George, ‘that I know no lady of that name. There is some mistake.’

      The older man was eyeing him keenly.

      ‘That can hardly be,’ he said drily. ‘I took the liberty of examining the hotel register. You entered yourself as Mr G Rowland of Rowland’s Castle.’

      George was forced to blush.

      ‘A – a little joke of mine,’ he explained feebly.

      ‘A somewhat poor subterfuge. Come, let us not beat about the bush. Where is Her Highness?’

      ‘If you mean Elizabeth –’

      With a howl of rage the young man flung himself forward again.

      ‘Insolent pig-dog! To speak of her thus.’

      ‘I am referring,’ said the other slowly, ‘as you very well know, to the Grand Duchess Anastasia Sophia Alexandra Marie Helena Olga Elizabeth of Catonia.’

      ‘Oh!’ said Mr Rowland helplessly.

      He tried to recall all that he had ever known of Catonia. It was, as far as he remembered, a small Balkan kingdom, and he seemed to remember something about a revolution having occurred there. He rallied himself with an effort.

      ‘Evidently we mean the same person,’ he said cheerfully, ‘only I call her Elizabeth.’

      ‘You will give me satisfaction for that,’ snarled the younger man. ‘We will fight.’

      ‘Fight?’

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